Monhollen: There’s strength in Weld County’s community of pain

"People are like tea bags; you never know how strong they'll be until they're in hot water."

I thought of this insight by Rita Mae Brown in "The Courage of Conviction" last Saturday morning as my wife and I checked out of the grocery store. I could see it in the attendant's eyes — part concern, part determination. I decided to ask, "Have you been affected by the water?" Trapped by minimum wage in a vulnerable Greeley neighborhood, she said, "I'll know this afternoon when I go home. It was just down the block when I came to work. Hope it doesn't reach us." The best I could do was wish her well.

In the parking lot, I realized that she had given us a haunting invitation to become a part of what Albert Schweitzer called the fellowship of those who bear the mark of pain.

There are interesting consequences for those who enter this community.

We are united by a secret bond created when we experience loss and are then connected to the pain of others.

Our spirits become more supple, more attuned to the care of communities, less inhibited. How often do we get to ask in church, "Would you like some diapers and underwear as well?"

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There is a curious power about our powerlessness in the community of those who bear the mark of pain. Think of the companies that are sending resources here to restore a flood-drenched economy and a crippled infrastructure. Think of the contacts from around the world from people who don't know us and who want to help. Think of the workers who will bring joy to those who will once again hear the glorious sound of toilets flushing.

In our vulnerability, we see that we share a condition called human, "born to nakedness and tenderness and nightmare in the eggshell fragility of mortality and flesh." Pat Conroy, a member of the community of pain, wrote this in "South of Broad," in part as a response to the impact of Hurricane Hugo on South Carolina in 1989.

What we learn in small encounters in the community of pain informs our response to larger issues. I asked Carmen Haines, a therapist at Integrus Counseling Associates in Greeley, for a phrase that new Latino immigrants to Greeley might use to describe their experience. She said, "The phrase is 'Ni Aqui, Ni Alla.' It means 'neither here nor there.' " Some call this the land in the middle, a place where we have all been living this past week. I wonder whether the flood-born empathy will connect legislators to those immigrants who yearn to breathe free.

If we look at others in a certain way in the community of pain, we may catch a glimpse of something of the holy that lies within us all, but that we often have a hard time seeing within ourselves. Some call this seeing others and ourselves through the eyes of faith.

I think of our church as one among many communities that sing on behalf of those who are silenced by loss. We sing, as we love, because someone, Someone, first sang for and loved us.

As we count on the kindness of each other, I imagine the sound of the psalmist Bruce Springsteen from "Into the Fire," inviting us to sing to each other.

May your strength give us strength.

May your faith give us faith.

May your hope give us hope.

May your love give us love.

Rev. Dr. Steven Monhollen is associate minister for pastoral care at First Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, Greeley.